


Sakyo Comes Home To Two

by neverendingworlds



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Feelings Realization, Movie Night, Multi, OT3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:13:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25216042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverendingworlds/pseuds/neverendingworlds
Summary: Omi and Izumi help Sakyo unwind after a rough day at work like they always do. Sakyo's revelations cast their usual routine in a new light, and an old movie leads to new growth.
Relationships: Furuichi Sakyou/Fushimi Omi/Tachibana Izumi
Comments: 2
Kudos: 34





	Sakyo Comes Home To Two

**Author's Note:**

> hello i would like to preach the good word of my ot3

Sakyo's fingers drummed against the steering wheel, music to join the chorus of the engine-hum and the odd car speeding past him on the road. A ballad from the musical soundtrack he'd been listening to echoed in the back of his mind but decided against putting it on in the background. Counting the trip home in songs never seemed to hasten the journey, it seemed to make those last minutes even longer than the silence stretched them.

And – he had to admit – he was looking forward to getting back to the dorms. When he'd been kept at the 'office' he typed the usual words into the usual group text thread.

 _'6:45pm, Sakyo_ : ' _Working late. Don't wait up.'_

Even as he typed them he knew he'd be met with insincere agreement from the first guilty party and playful teasing from the second. Infuriating, in some ways. In others...

Well. It wasn't unpleasant. The thought of knowing no matter how he protested, come hell, high water or the midnight hour they'd be waiting for him to come home from work. Even if he wished Izumi would take the chance to get some damn sleep, the woman was always running herself into the ground. Impossible, stubborn. When he dared suggest she take better care of herself, the way her face contorted from the cutest shock to gentle defiance. It reminded him that he could spend all day watching her thoughts play out across her face.

“ _But there's never enough time in the day for everything I have to do!” And Izumi smiled, her rebel smile, the one she used when she twisted his platitudes against him, so proud of herself for running circles around the old man. “We've got a theatre to run, Mr-Time-Is-Money”_

And Fushimi, Fushimi needed to take a scrap of time for himself – for his classwork or craft or just to take a nice bath alone. He sank so much of goddamn time and energy into literally everyone else under their roof would it _kill_ him to take a moment to think about himself? His response to that sentiment was somehow worse than Izumi's! He _laughed,_ a deep, rich rumble that made something in Sakyo's chest liquify.

“ _My, my! You're one to talk. When was the last time you took time off?” And Omi smiled, the warm-milk-and-honey smile with that twinkle in his eye. “It might not hurt to lead by example.”_

“Impossible,” Sakyo muttered like a curse at the memories.

His eyes widened at the sight of a familiar corner, the same old buildings on the same old street. Memories passed the time far faster than music, so it seemed. He parked the car in the blink of an eye, and told himself he wasn't running to the door. No, he was 'power walking'.

“I'm home.” Sakyo closed the door behind him, gently as he could. The kids were sleeping, after all (or at least, they should have been) and the adults had retired to their private spaces by now. All but two.

“Welcome home.” Omi murmured, breath hot against Sakyo's ear. Hands, large and warm and impossibly deft, slid from his shoulders to the buttons of his coat. He wasn't sure when they'd fallen into this tradition: the way Omi slid the coat from his body, slipped the scarf from his neck as if it were the most natural of greetings.

From the way the gesture melted the tension in Sakyo's shoulders, the rigours of a long day, perhaps it had become natural. Not that he'd admit it. Not that he'd say anything at all other than a gruff, “Thanks.”

He got to taking his shoes off as Omi hung his coat on one of the coat hooks and disappeared somewhere with his scarf. (He'd find it the next morning folded up in his drawer, freshly laundered).

The scent of green tea wafted from the kitchen to the doorway, along with the soft sound of a familiar humming voice a familiar tune. She never was able to hold a tune well, yet he could never stop the smile that crept across his face when he heard her.

And she always hummed while she bustled about. So, he always smiled. Kept it hidden in a book or a newspaper, a cup of coffee or in desperate times the back of his hand as he faked a cough. But the feeling of the smile remained. The sense of her happiness, her carefree contentment being contagious. And beautiful.  
  
Sakyo slid his dress shoes into his designated spot on the shoe-rack. (They all had _one_ slot on the rack by the door, else they'd end up filled with Yuki's collection of feminine shoes or worse, Banri's infernal overpriced sneakers, disgusting wastes of money-)

He stretched a little by the entrance-way door, content to watch the director ferry a teapot from the kitchen to lounge. She caught him on her way back to the kitchen, and their eyes locked. Her face bloomed into open adoration as she gave a little wave, unbearably cute. (If Sakyo knew just how his face mirrored hers, he would have outright fled.)

“Welcome home,” Izumi called out, all smiles and sweetness. “Go sit. We'll join you in a minute.”

He simply nodded and walked towards in tired little steps. But not the dragging and fatigued, can't-wait-for-this-day-to-be-over tired walk he once had. A heavy yet contented tiredness, as he sat he left the stresses of the day behind and slipped into a warm sleepiness. Comfort, in knowing what was to come.

He leaned back into the couch cushions and closed his eyes. The low-volume program on the television, soft voices chattering like static against the symphony of Izumi pottering about – humming and huffing in her own little world.

Before long, her weight settled beside him. Their knees were touching, just, and he was relaxed enough that a happy sigh escaped.

“Long day?” Izumi asked.

Sakyo cracked an eye open. “You could say that. Somewhat of a paperwork nightmare, but I survived.” He shrugged, and her smile was sympathetic. A part of him got a thrill out of being able to read the question in her eyes. “And no, I don't want to talk about it. Would rather hear about your day.”

“Oh, I'm not so sure that's a good idea. Hearing about today's shenanigans would just make you more tired.” Izumi giggled at some invisible joke. Didn't really matter why, it was just nice to hear her laugh.  
  
“The boys were quite the handful today, weren't they? Especially Banri.” Omi materialised somewhere behind them. How such a big man could move so quietly, appear so suddenly was a mystery. But Sakyo didn't hate it. It added to Omi's air of gentleness.

Izumi groaned and rolled her eyes, all the world's expressiveness in one person. “Don't remind me. I haven't forgiven him yet!”  
  
Omi chuckled. “Neither has Juza, I'd wager.”

His position was revealed the moment his hands came to rest on Sakyo's shoulders. A familiar gesture, gentle squeeze and all.

“Are you hungry? There's plenty of leftover curry.” Omi mothered, and Sakyo suppressed a snort.

Plenty of leftovers in a house of twenty-one men and one curry fiend, a dubious claim at best. Would it kill Omi to admit he'd put some aside specifically for Sakyo? The bastard dared to be humility incarnate and left Sakyo grasping for proper excuses to thank him. There weren't enough of those, not nearly.

“I ate at the office,” Sakyo paused. Their rhythms were apparent, jumping out at him today. He felt the usual question hang in the air before anything was said. “And before you ask: yes, I'm sure I ate enough. This old man knows how to take care of himself, believe it or not.”

“Hmm,” Izumi tapped a finger against her chin as pretending to think something over and hummed loudly. Her acting, awful as usual, bloomed warmth in his chest. “Sounds fake but okay.”

Sakyo raised an eyebrow and glowered halfheartedly in her direction. “Excuse me?”

“Sounds fake but okay. I picked it up off Kazunari!” Izumi grinned, triumphant. “ It means, I'll let your gross exaggeration pass but I want you to know I think you're full of crap...” She paused, pursed her lips. Cute confusion, as if she'd talked herself in circles. “At least, I think that's what it means.”

Omi chose this moment flip the switch on his magical powers, hands shifting gears from idle resting to full on masseuse mode. Gentle – always gentle – but firm, those magical hands worked to unravel the stress that lived in his neck and shoulders.

“Don't look at me. I'm about as 'hip' with the 'lingo' as Sakyo-san,” The grin was palpable in Omi's voice, sound of it enough to foster warmth in Sakyo's chest instead of the indignant he knew he should have felt.  
  
“Oi-” His rote protest was cut off as Omi's thumb teased out knot in the back of his neck, and all attention shifted to keeping back a moan of relief.

The bastard always knew where to move his hands, whether it was instinct or practice or unholy magic, did it matter?

He hid a sigh of relief in exasperation and turned to Izumi with an eyebrow arched.

“Are we gonna watch a movie or not?” Sakyo asked, leaning back into Omi's touch.

“Of course!” Izumi sparked to action, a heated search for the remote. “But no complaining, remember you said I could pick the movie.”

Sakyo rolled his eyes, but in truth he couldn't find it in himself to care. “Better be good.”

“You'll just have to deal – found it!” Izumi's waved the remote around, triumphant. Always so animated, no matter how long the day had been. A quiet voice inside his head whispered wants, little butterfly kisses. To let her know she was even more beautiful because she was human. Tell her it's okay to be tired, to rest.

The fondness must have been apparent, as her cheeks had coloured the lightest pink and her hand came to rest on his knee.

Omi gave his shoulders a final, friendly squeeze; and the crown of his head a feather-light kiss, which friendly couldn't quite be extended to describe. It was Sakyo's turn to blush as Omi declared, nonchalant, “I'll go get the popcorn.”

Cursing his complexion, Sakyo feigned interest in the news program on the TV – face turned safely away from both of them. The news was soon replaced by the opening credits of a familiar film and the warmth intensified.

'The Sound Of Music' had always been a favourite, a classic, a comfort. And she knew, the demoness director knew, she'd caught him watching in more than once; settled in beside him, promptly fallen asleep on his shoulder.

Like clockwork, he felt her head hit his shoulder. And he channelled all that fondness, all those warm feelings into thorough and false exasperation. He'd never get sick of this, get sick of her. But he couldn't put the mask down, not yet.

“Oi. Might as well just go to bed if you're gonna fall asleep here,” Sakyo gruffed, though it sounded weak even to him.

“I won't sleep, I promise,” Izumi spoke with unshakeable conviction. She nuzzled his bony shoulder, barely padded by his shirt and sighed an adorable little sigh. “You're just so comfy. Let me stay?”

Sakyo shook his head, muttered and grumbled. “Fine.”

“There we go.” The sofa creaked a little under the weight of the third person. Musclebound Omi, who placed the popcorn on the coffee table with their tea. Fresh, that salt-and-butter smell mixed with the sencha green. Strange but familiar.

Omi's long-reaching arm slid around Sakyo's shoulders, encompassing both him and Izumi with his casual affection. Like it was nothing, but it was something. Everything. The movie – any movie, really – seemed a sideshow, set dressing to this moment. Snuggled between the two fools who waited up for him without fail, the two beautiful stars of the show and fireworks in his night sky.  
  
It passed so quickly, from the opening song and Omi's quiet admission he'd never seen it before, Izumi's giddy sing-along and attempts to get Sakyo to join – one successful, to her cute little snores and the companionable silence of Sakyo, Omi and the cheesy old movie the yakuza knew song for song, word for word, shot for shot.  
  
The love story had always captured his heart. A younger woman all smiles and determination, and older man with a tough exterior. Their love for a home, a family, his children – a love of music and song, yet nothing so grand and youthful. Subtle. True. An honest love, a traditional love.  
  
And it still did, to an extent. His heart still sped up when he heard the familiar musical cue and the words ' _Do you know when I first started loving you?'._ How many times had he imagined posting that question, letting the smile come from his heart as he reached for hers. He saw himself in the man same as always, and Izumi in the dashing heroine but... with Omi beside him, projecting warmth and care, safety. It was different. Something was missing. The old scenes in his imagination were half-formed, unmade. Incomplete.

“These two really remind me of some people I know,” Omi teased and turned to Sakyo with a mischievous glint in his eye. “An unstoppable ray of sunshine and a curmudgeon with a heart of gold taking care of rowdy kids.”  
  
Of course. Of course Omi would pick up on it. He was either obtuse or looking through the lens with an eye for detail, and surely felt Sakyo tense at the observation.

“I'm a curmudgeon, am I?”  
  
Omi chuckled. “Heh, sorry.” His eyes drifted back to the movie, expression becoming inscrutable. “But, you have to admit, the story matches up quite nicely.”  
  
_No_ , something in Sakyo clawed, clawed up from his heart to his mind, _it doesn't, it isn't. Damn it, Furuichi, say something!_

“It's not... it doesn't fit if you're not in it,” Sakyo murmured, staring straight at the popcorn bowl. Half empty, like his life would be without one of them. He clenched his jaw and forced the words out over the sweet lilt of the love song. “No story does, or.... ever will.”

Omi gasped, small and reverent as his whisper. “Sakyo-san...”

Sakyo shifted under the weight of honey-coloured eyes burning into him, turned his head ever so slightly – enough to reveal the flush of his cheeks, matched perfectly with Omi's. There were a number of things he could have said and a certain few he knew he should have, but his tongue was lead and mind racing. He'd already given life to the shape of the truth, a vague outline.

Unspoken for so long, unspoken still.

The air felt thin, brittle; tension and silence threatening to shatter one way or the other. Instead, there was a small yawn and a wave of relief; conversation over, confrontation avoided. No chance to air the sentiments he could barely admit to himself.

Izumi stretched, and sighed and yawned again. Looked up at them both, wiped the sleep from her eyes and smiled that smile that spelled out 'up-to-no-good'.

“You know-” She cut herself off with a yawn, muffled it in Sakyo's shoulder. It was too cute to warrant offence. “-there are some writers around here. We can write our own story.”

“Fit for three,” Omi said, expression soft and knowing.

Sakyo watched Izumi and Omi's gazes lock as Omi's arm tightened around his shoulders. Izumi nestled into his shoulder again, and Sakyo... Sakyo fit between them like he belonged there. The natural order of things.

He was sure at any moment someone was going to say _something_. Anything. If not for the movie rolling onward there would have been no measure of time, only the new tension that coiled in his stomach and the warm bodies enveloping him with touch and feeling alike.

It wasn't until the credits rolled, and Izumi's lay her head on his lap with a sigh that he realised he might be wrong. That no one would say anything, not yet, other than soft murmurs of 'goodnight' and 'sleep tight' and 'see you in the morning, I'm making pancakes'. Lingering touches, Omi's arm slipping from their shoulders as he reached his room, Izumi's hand slipping from Sakyo's own as she reached hers.

Sakyo was left safe on the other side of his dorm-room door, clutching his chest where his heart still beat as if he'd been running.  
  
Maybe he had been. Running from their reflections, from the simplicity of fitting between them. From their rhythms, conscious and subconscious, carved into his heart. Running from having to stop to think about it, acknowledge that the 'conventional' narrative would never fit him, could never fit him so long as he loved them like this.

Tomorrow, he'd wake up to the smell of Omi's heaven-sent pancakes wafting through the courtyard and be greeted by his heartfelt smile and a cup of coffee exactly the way he likes it. Tomorrow, Izumi would have unconquerable bedhead while she rushed to help the school-aged kids get ready, sparing a cute wave for Sakyo as she passed him in the hall. Tomorrow, he'd love them both even more than he does as he's closing his eyes and slipping to sleep, hoping he'll dream of them.  
  
Knowing, he'll find the words to bend convention to fit three. Break it if he has to.


End file.
